Clockwork Arrows
by North of the North
Summary: Canada and America may have deplorable conditions for their First Nations and Native American peoples right now, but that doesn't mean they don't care about them.
1. Chapter 1

It was the flight of the arrow across the churning waters of the river, that he had been admiring the look of, to his side of the riverbank that had alerted him to the boy's presence. The boy had stiffened then froze to the spot, dumbstruck for a good minute, when he noticed the Englishman on the other side, and that his carelessness in not noticing him had caused the man to see him when he had shot his arrow.

Then, he had started trembling, and glistening tears had started to run down his face and plop onto his pristine white shirt, darkening the fabric where they landed underneath his chin.

"Please don't tell papa France about this. He told me not to before. I'm not supposed to be shooting my bow anymore and I promised him that I wouldn't either; but, please don't tell him mister. I don't want to get in trouble." The crying boy begged in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the rushing of the river.

The boy was speaking in French, and normally England hated the language enough that he would fight anyone he caught speaking it around him; but, the boy was too small to have possibly realized exactly who he was, so he desperately tried not to take offense. Plus there was the enticing possibility of the boy.

England could tell that the boy was a colony, and a big one at that. Colonies all had a certain look to them, countries could always tell who a colony was because of it. This boy looked like he was glowing, just a faint shimmer around the edges; but, it was enough to alert England to the fact that he should act as nice as he could, and try not to scare him away too soon.

So, England had smiled at the boy, and had promised himself that this would be the only time he would use the blasted language.

"It's alright, boy. Did you happen to just say papa France?" He asked.

The boy sniffled, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand before he nodded.

"Yes." He also said.

So, this little one was France's, hm? Well, not for much longer, then. It simply wouldn't do to let stand. If he was France's, then England simply **had **to have him.

It was a principle he had, you see. What's his is his, and what is France's will soon be his too.

It was just the way he had always worked.

* * *

The next time he caught the boy using his bow, it had been under his own rule. After he'd taken the boy from France he'd learned the boy's name, Mathew. He was now his new colony Canada, and he too, did not care for Canada to continue playing at being the little savage.

He'd marched over to him, taken the bow from him, and snapped it across his knee. Then he had taken each individual arrow, and had snapped them all too in the same way.

"I will never catch you using these horrid things again." He had hissed at Canada.

That wasn't the last time he'd seen the boy cry.

Mathew had cried the next time he had destroyed his bow, and the next time it had happened, and the time after that also.

But he deserved it for being the rebellious brat that he was to go against anything England said.

No colony of England's would be permitted to do such an uncultured thing. It wasn't allowed, and any attempt he saw to participate in it would be stopped. He would make sure to bury whatever feelings Mathew felt for the vulgar...sport before he could decide on his own that he wanted to keep shooting at nothing, trees, or even animals. He wanted to make sure that the boy didn't even consider doing archery when he was old enough to choose some of his own hobbies.

The damn boy never listened to his commands to stop though, and he had to be punished many, many, times for it.

* * *

I'm sorry about how brutal, and uncaring, England seems in this. I just have a bit of an idea for the next, and perhaps last, chapter of this, so any ideas that you guys have I would love to hear about.


	2. Chapter 2

Clockwork Arrows

The arrow fishtailed out of sight, banging against trees and becoming hopelessly lost in the thicket.

"Well that's a goner, Al." Mathew remarked to Alfred.

Arthur and Francis stayed hidden in their position behind the two.

"Did you know that they knew how to do archery?" Arthur asked Francis.

"No." Francis replied and shook his head. "I didn't. I'm assuming you didn't either?"

"Quite correct."

"I don't understand how this happened. When did they even start?" Francis dropped his voice to a quieter whisper when he saw Canada glance back in their direction, perhaps alerted by their small talk before he shook his head and ran to catch up to his brother to fetch their arrows.

Arthur snapped his gaping jaw with a clack and frowned at Francis. "Whatever do you mean? Shooting archery? Or Mathew actually talking for once and Alfred not cutting in and mouthing off every few seconds?"

Francis nodded appreciably. "Actually, both." He replied.

Arthur just shook his head. "No clue."

And they never did have a clue, but after Francis stubbed his toe on a rock and started furiously swearing in French, Alfred and Mathew did have a clue...that they were there and invited the two over to join them. And so, the reason why they knew such an archaic sport was never brought up again and both older men soon forgot it, but Alfred and Mathew never forgot their roots nor the thousands of other traditions they practiced yearly to remember their first peoples.

* * *

***shrugs* **

**Just a short and pointless drabble**


End file.
